Billboard Cop Page 8

  York felt a tightening in his gut. He gripped her hand, giving support. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

  “Sniffles said the girl used to work for the mayor before she got the exec job at Kesslers.”

  ****

  Jen couldn’t stop thinking about Lorraine’s bombshell. She had wanted to go see Shelly right away, but when she called for an appointment Shelly was just leaving her apartment and wouldn’t return until evening. York said it was for the best. He felt securing her place took precedence.

  Edgy, she tucked a tendril of hair behind her ears. Installing the new security system had taken him most of the day. Now with forced confidence, she faced the panel of buttons mounted on her entryway wall and repeated the coded sequence he had set up. He was so close she could feel his warm breath on the back of her hair and the heat radiating from his body. She stepped away and took a calming breath. It didn’t help. She closed her eyes.

  Focus on why he’s here.

  The security system made her feel more in control of her life, except where he was concerned. Having him around all day kept her on an emotional high. “Thanks for making me feel safe again, York.”

  He shrugged. “I just installed it. Something you could’ve done yourself.”

  The casual lift of his shoulders and his humble words told her this gruff cop found it difficult to accept gratitude. Did he fear appearing human? Well, too late. She’d already seen a few of his unguarded moments and knew there was a kind man under all that gruffness. Still, he puzzled her.

  She righted a crooked sterling silver relief sculpture of The Lord’s Supper that had tipped during all the hammering. “Until last night,” she said, “I didn’t think I needed all this extra protection. Living on the thirteenth floor surrounded by neighbors only steps from my door, I felt safe enough.”

  He lightly touched her shoulder. The effect of his simple touch rocked her senses and rippled down her nerve endings.

  “Don’t let stronger locks and the new system lull you into a false sense of security,” he said. “You still have to stay alert.”

  “Darn it, York. Couldn’t you allow me a few moments to enjoy this? I think you get a kick out of scaring the pants off me.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched as if in an effort to retain his serious expression, but his grin won. “Your words certainly paint a vivid picture for me, Reporter.”

  Heat crawled up her cheeks. She‘d walked into that one. Which was the real York—the gruff, abrupt cop or the playful flirt who made her smile, and to her dismay, even blush? She glanced at her watch to cover her embarrassment.

  “My interview with Shelly Drake is at 5:30 p.m”

  “Our interview,” he corrected. “And I’m counting on you to draw her out.”

  Warning signals went off in Jen’s head. “Don’t you dare interfere with my interview. If you decide to take her downtown, do it later.”

  “Don’t tell me how to run my investigation, Reporter.” His expression hardened. “I can help you get your story, or take you out of the loop. Your choice.”

  She wanted to tell him to go to hell, but the story was too big to let her temper foul up a great inside contact like Detective Wylinski. She decided to switch tactics. “If you’re going with me, maybe you should shave.” The dark shadow on his jaw looked too sexy for her comfort. “There’s an extra razor in my medicine cabinet.”

  York arched a dark eyebrow. “Have men stay over often, do you, Ms. Lyman?”

  Before she could think of a good comeback, the doorbell rang. Grateful for her reprieve, she hurried to answer it. She flung the door open and gasped. “Lee!”

  Lee Brock’s spectacular golden tan emphasized his wheat-blond hair and vivid blue eyes. The antique gun dealer was definitely history, but the excitement of seeing an old friend made her abandon caution. She threw herself into his arms and hugged him.

  When he held her too long, she twisted away. “What a surprise, Lee. Come in. Come in.” She took him by the arm. “I didn’t know you were back in town. Why didn’t you call?”

  Lee stopped abruptly and his smile faded. His grim gaze raked over York. “This the new boyfriend?”

  Jen laughed. “Oh, no. This is Detective York Wylinski.”

  In spite of her denial, her stomach got all fluttery at the suggestion. She couldn’t help but compare the men. Lee’s surfer-blond hair reminded her of sunshine and golden beaches. To her aggravation, York’s tall, dark looks made her think of midnight and thrashing around on rustling silk sheets.

  “Detective?” Lee frowned. “Is there a problem?”

  “No. Everything’s fine now.” She smiled, wanting to glaze over her fears and stay in the moment, enjoying watching the interaction between these two men. Both were at least six feet in height, with York perhaps a bit taller, with longer, leaner muscles. Until she’d met York, Jen had thought Lee had the ideal male body. Now, he came in a lagging second.

  The men shook hands, unsmiling and seeming to coldly measure each other. Lee folded his arms and swelled his chest.

  York stared at the gauze and tape on Lee’s ear. “What happened to your ear? Could that bandage cover a bullet wound, Mr. Brock?” he asked.

  Jen hadn’t noticed it before. Strange York would jump to such a conclusion. Was he always so suspicious, or did he know something about the intruder that pegged Lee as a plausible suspect?

  Lee’s eyes darkened. The air crackled with electrified testosterone. Mentally, they were well matched, both intelligent and hard edged. Suddenly, Lee laughed, but his icy eyes revealed no humor. “How the hell did you guess that?” He shifted his weight. “I’m an antique gun dealer, and last night some lowlife tried to rob me of my collection. In our exchange of fire, one of the jerk’s bullets grazed my ear.”

  Her first impulse was to reach out to Lee and comfort him. An image of the big man she’d fired at flashed in her mind and stopped her. Lee’s build fit the shooter’s silhouette. She rubbed her temples, trying to ease the onslaught of a headache. Wait a minute. Even considering Lee was ridiculous. He was a friend. A man she’d known for two years.

  York sent her a knowing look as if he’d guessed her uncertainty.

  Lee’s eyes darted back and forth between them. “What’s going on here, anyway?”

  York pulled a pad and pen from his shirt pocket. “What’s your address, and phone number?”

  “Marriott. Room 1452.”

  “How long have you been in Boston?” York shot back.

  The corner of Lee’s eye twitched. “A couple of weeks. Why?”

  “What?” Jen’s eyes widened. “All that time and no call?”

  He owed her nothing, but wouldn’t a real friend call? She wished he’d say something to reassure her. And something to indicate he understood friends was all they ever could be. Lee was her past. And as attractive as York was, he was too dangerous to her career goals to be her future. Yet with the irascible detective, she felt this undercurrent of something else.

  Lee stepped closer to her. “Sorry. I wasn’t sure if my call would be welcome.”

  “Of course I love hearing from old friends.” She feared he might slip his arm around her. Rather than follow her urge to step away, she forced herself to stay put. “I’m delighted to see you again, but—”

  “She has plans,” York finished for her.

  “I can finish my own sentences, Detective!”

  “Fine, but do it quickly.” York tapped the crystal on his watch and gestured with his head. “We’d better get going, Jen.” Then he locked gazes with Lee. “Don’t leave town, Brock. You and I aren’t through yet, but it’ll have to wait. Ms. Lyman and I have an appointment.”

  As though to flaunt his indifference to York’s command, Lee stepped closer to Jen and stroked her arm with his index finger. “How about getting together later tonight?” he asked in the same deep voice that used to give her goose bumps. “I have something important to talk to you about.”

  “That’ll
have to wait, too,” York growled. “Ms. Lyman will be tied up all evening. Police business.”

  She darted a sharp glance at York, but due to the time constraints, she forced herself to remain silent.

  “Are you under arrest or something?” Lee asked. “I still don’t get what’s going on here.”

  She wondered that herself. “I’m fine, Lee. Don’t worry. I’ll get this all cleared up and call you in the morning.”

  Ten minutes later as they sped across town in York’s unmarked car, Jen fumed until she couldn’t stay quiet anymore. “What the devil was that, Detective?”

  She watched his hands tighten on the steering wheel as he smoothly maneuvered the five o’clock traffic.

  “You have to stay away from Brock until I can check his story,” he growled.

  “You can’t mean you really think Lee is the strangler?”

  York changed lanes abruptly. “Not sure. But I believe he could’ve been your intruder.”

  She shook her head. “Based on what?”

  “A bullet grazed his ear on the same night you fired at someone.” When York took his eyes off the road briefly and glanced at her, she felt a flutter in her stomach.

  “If I ever heard an unbelievable coincidence, that’s it,” he said.

  She swallowed. If she didn’t know Lee so well, she’d agree it looked bad for him. “I thought you cops needed motivation. He’d never hurt me. We’re friends.”

  “More than friends, judging by the length of time he held you when you threw yourself into his arms. Maybe he didn’t like it when you dumped him. That’s what happened, right?”

  Jen couldn’t identify the emotion in his tone for sure, but it sounded very much like jealousy. “It wasn’t like that. After two years we simply realized we were wrong for each other.”

  York’s hands relaxed on the steering wheel. “What about the wound?”

  “It had to be like Lee said.” She forced conviction into her tone. “He was the one who taught me to shoot, for goodness sake. Believe me, Lee isn’t a stupid guy. He’d never break into my apartment knowing I have a gun. Especially since he knows I usually hit my target.”

  “Sometimes a man wants a woman so much he does reckless things. Perhaps he wants to get back together with you and thought he’d scare you so badly that you’d take him back with open arms.”

  “That’s ridiculous. What about the fishing twine on the floor?”

  “If the guy who broke in isn’t the strangler, he wanted us to assume he was. More scare tactics. Still fits Brock.”

  “What about the phone calls? The threatening notes?”

  “Brock could easily disguise his voice, and he no doubt has your home e-mail address.”

  “But the calls and notes started over ten days ago.” Her throat felt dry.

  “That proves nothing. Big point, he matches your description of the intruder. Second big factor, that bullet wound. And third, he was shot last night. The coincidences are mounting up, Jen.”

  York’s rational and ominous tone sent shivers up her spine. Lee couldn’t have been the man who’d broken into her place, but she understood why York might think he could. One coincidence was bad enough, but three sent up a whole field of warning signals. York paused for the slow moving ambulance that turned out of the emergency driveway of the hospital.

  “Shelly’s apartment is just ahead in the next block.” She pushed aside her worries about Lee and concentrated on her approaching interview. Would this turn out to be the lead she needed?

  Chapter Five

  In a stolen gray Honda, once a bright yellow, the strangler hummed a mindless tune as he followed Jen and the police detective. He’d foregone speed for anonymity. A FedEx truck cut him off. He tensed, and then calmed himself, something he had to work at constantly. Without losing sight of his mark, he swung out and continued in the flow of traffic.

  Cars full of people moved all around him, but he felt comfortably alone in his world. His mind cycled thoughts rapidly. Last night he’d gotten a real rush from watching the team of cops comb Jen’s building searching for him. He had to admit it was touch-and-go for a few seconds as they methodically swept the ducts. The SWAT leader came so close he and the man breathed the same stale air.

  He’d acted on impulse, going to Jen’s place last night. He wanted to scare her into backing off, not kill her. At least, not yet. Unless he lost control, he killed only when his client ordered it, with each killing carefully planned. His client didn’t know his secret—that the job fulfilled a need to kill. Until he’d accepted the assignment to imitate The Boston Strangler, he hadn’t thought of strangling people. His weapon of choice had always been a gun. But when Mr. Big Bucks asked him to play copycat, he’d found the idea intriguing and the change of mode exhilarating.

  The copycat signature wasn’t totally accurate, of course. The first strangler coined the “Boston Strangler” by the media, had probably never used fishing twine. This new twist was his boss’ idea. It was surprising how much he enjoyed it, though; nothing before had compared to the thrill of yanking the twine tighter and tighter. The adrenaline high he experienced from the choking and gurgling cries of his victim and the rush of power as he brought his prey to his knees, thrashing and clawing, was mind blowing. Strangling Gordon Michaels had given him the least pleasure. The client had insisted that he slip the husky reporter knockout drops ahead of time to assure success. That took all the fun out of it.

  Killing Sniffles had more than made up for it. Since the mark was a little guy, the client let him strangle him without weakening him with drugs. So he had fun with it, made it a real challenge. It had been accomplished flawlessly on a sunny day in the Commons with hordes of unsuspecting people around.

  The excitement built again just recalling the events: I stuck my .38 in Sniffles’ ribs and ordered him from the phone booth outside the gates into the Commons. As I forced the skinny little twerp to walk beside me down the winding concrete walk, he kept saying that the joke was on me, that he had no money. Pulling the twine from my pocket, I told him, “Then get lost.” When he started to run, I circled his neck with the twine and yanked him right out of his shoes.

  As I dragged Sniffles from the glare of the hot sun into the cooling shade of a bramble of bushes and dense trees, the air was fragrant with the smell of new mown grass and drifting scents from the flowered hedges. On the other side of the dense brush I heard the sound of children playing in a nearby wading pool, their laughter dancing on the wind while the slimy little twerp kicked out with his stocking feet, struggling and choking as I pulled the twine tighter and tighter until I heard the most stirring sound of my career, a helpless gurgling like a bathtub emptying to nothingness.

  Chuckling at the memory, he tried to imagine the noise Jen would make. It would be more delicate, perhaps like the trickle of spilled champagne….

  ****

  Jen felt a stab of sorrow at the red puffiness around Shelly Drake’s eyes when the frail blonde answered the door. She had a baby girl balanced on her hip and two small boys hanging onto her denim-clad legs. After introductions, Jen and York handed the young woman their business cards.

  Shelly didn’t even glance at them. “I’m sorry, Ms. Lyman,” she said, without making eye contact. “I shouldn’t have agreed to talk to you.”

  Jen was used to people reneging after they had time to think things over. They often got cold feet. But she could handle it. “You said you wanted to help get Sniffles’ killer. Has that changed?”

  Shelly’s gaze flew to Jen’s. “No, of course not. Sniffles didn’t deserve to die. He never hurt anybody.”

  “Without your help, the guy who killed him could go free. Maybe even come after you. Or your kids.”

  Fear flickered in Shelly’s eyes. “My kids could be in danger?”

  “Until this guy’s caught, everyone in Boston is in danger.”

  Shelly looked down at her kids. She stared at them for a moment, and then gestured for Jen and York to enter
the small studio apartment. Stepping around the clutter of toys and a couple of small blankets, Jen seated herself on the sagging couch.

  Shelly joined her. “Sorry about the mess.” She put a bottle in the baby’s mouth and held her close. “I took off at four o’clock to talk to you, but after I paid the sitter I barely had time to change clothes.”

  Jen smiled. “It looks lived in.” Actually, the clutter had barely registered with her; it was the small quarters that didn’t add up. A studio apartment with kids—especially for a woman who had held at least two very responsible, highly-skilled positions. Where did the money go?

  York removed a toy fire engine and a rattle and seated himself in an overstuffed chair, dwarfing the room with his looming presence.

  Shelly watched him as though sizing him up. Then she met Jen’s gaze. “What do you want from me? I don’t know anything.”

  “Even a small detail could help. What about Sniffles’ friends?”

  “I don’t think he had any. He was a loner.”

  Shelly’s rigid demeanor wasn’t a good sign. If Jen wanted to get anything out of her, she’d have to shake her up a bit. She touched her hand. “He loved you.”

  “I know,” she said softly. “I loved him, too.”

  Jen noticed that the older boy, who appeared to be about five, was having difficulty breathing. Shelly noticed it too and adjusted the baby in her arms and brought the boy close and held an inhaler for him to take a breath from it. “Honey, did the sitter give you your medicine today?”

  He shrugged. When Shelly gently rubbed his back, he buried his head in her lap. Jen waited, giving Shelly time to handle her son’s problem before asking another question.

  Her other son, who looked to be about four, stood beside York and stared at him.

  York laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder and the child looked at him with wide brown eyes full of such neediness that it made Jen’s heart ache. Poor kid was not only a middle child, but it was obvious that his older brother needed the most attention and probably got it. York gently ruffled the boy’s hair and smiled at him. It was all the encouragement the younger boy needed and he climbed up on York’s lap.